Thursday, 28 November 2013

I started writing a column for The Star. I thought I might post these columns; this is a version of my first article which appeared on 18 November 2013.

Coming to live in France was something I was always
prepared for.Being married to a
Frenchman, one has to be ready for that sort of thing.After all, my husband had spent ten years in
Malaysia and is very accustomed to eating roti
canai and dhal for
breakfast.Now it’s my turn, and I don’t
see any problems in eating buttery croissants for breakfast.The problem will be fitting into my jeans.Although, I confess I am a Penang girl at
heart, and a good kuey teow thng is
what I miss most some mornings.But it
was the first time I was going to live abroad as a parent, and I did have some
panic moments.

When you are single (and young), the unknown is an
adventure and you have only yourself to think of.With kids though, one tends to succumb less
to spontaneity and try at least to have some things planned ahead.You can’t crash on a friend’s sofa for a few
weeks.Registering for school is a
little bit more complicated than opening a bank account or getting a membership
at the local pool. Not only did we have
to have a residential address, we could only register the kids the moment the insurance
for the home kicked in, which is the day we moved in. So if we thought we were
being smart and had a lease prior to our arrival and could register the kids in
advance, we were mistaken.

I do speak French, and considerably well it seems,
according to my husband and my French in-laws and friends.Of course, could be they are just being
polite.The French language is full of
subtleties, and the true meanings of certain words I have only started to fully
understand now, more than ten years since I first learnt the language.Perhaps I’m just slow.And certain situations demand a precision in
a language I fear I have not mastered.The image of being in an emergency room (and how to get there) with my
kids, stuck for words, strike me with fear.I could go to the butcher with a picture of the cut of meat I want but
googling for a picture of a urinary tract infection or for a translation in an
emergency room seems like a not-so-funny episode of some old comedy on TV.And I am still working on being able to come
up with a smart retort to some obnoxious metro fellow passenger there and then,
not five minutes later.

My girls are 9 and 7, and had been coming to France
every summer.They both speak French
fluently and are easily adaptable.When
we announced to them that we were moving permanently to France, they were first
of all excited.Then they started to
think that their lives were being ruined, with their friendships destroyed and
their beloved grandmother left behind.Their home, with their huge bedroom and a swimming pool would be an
unknown luxury in Paris.As we left our
house for the last time, they were choked up and although we had spent months
preparing them, wailed “Why do we have to leave?This is our home!”

We did not expect a difficult integration.There was no language barrier for them to
overcome although they do seem to speak it with much more fluidity now and have
certainly picked up some colloquial largo,
or dialect.The cultural affinity was
already there.After all, their father
is French.They had already been in a
French education system.

Two weeks before school started, they were both highly
strung.Excited, at the same time
anxious, they bickered.They couldn’t
wait to start school.I couldn’t either.

In France, school is not compulsory but education is;
although only a small 0.2% of the school- going population are homeschooled in
France. Primary school officially starts when a child turns 6.Equivalent to Standard one is CP, Cours Préparatoire.

Kids in France are generally not pressured to learn to
read before this age (they are only expected to be able to read their name),
and the focus in preschool, or what is known as maternelle, is to acquire a good level of spoken French.Being able to speak clearly is seen as paving
the way to thinking clearly and therefore reasoning, counting, classifying,
describing, all should follow suit.

At the end of each term, my kids came home with
enormous folders of drawings and paintings, often of lines, waves, semi
circles, circles – they were learning how to hold a pencil correctly and the
basics of handwriting: another important element focused at preschool.They are encouraged to explore their senses,
their feelings, and imagination. Most important at preschool is learning how to
be an élève
ie a student or a pupil, what school is about and being part of a social
group.Living with others requires
rules of civility, cooperation and independence.The child learns that the teacher is there
not for her only, but for others in the group too.She learns to be part of a group but also to
understand the constraints of being part of a group.

When my younger daughter was in maternelle (this was in KL, but the school maintains a French
spirit), the teacher in the report card praised her for her enthusiasm but
remarked that she needed to “wait her turn and raise her hand to speak”.

One thing to get used to in France is the French
workers’ proclivity to strike.This does
not exclude teachers.Protesting against
the proposed re-installation of Wednesdays (there was no school on Wednesdays
in France but this changed with the new school year in September) as a school
day, there had been two days where parents were expected to “be understanding”
and keep their children home while the teachers were on strike.And the French parents do understand.Strikes and demonstrations are part and
parcel of French life and everyone just deals with it.

One evening over dinner, my younger one said to me
“Mama, we’ve both made friends in school.How about you?Have you made any
friends?”I explained that for adults,
it always took a little longer.My
considerate daughter, supportive and full of encouragement, said “Don’t worry,
next week there is a parents and teacher meeting.You will meet other parents there and I’m sure
you will make some friends!”How do I
tell her that French mothers are not inclined to say hello to you and be your
friend, just because your kids are friends.

So how are we adjusting a year later? I just know that its all easy to plan but its
never easy to know how you will adapt and what you will feel, until you are
there sur place, facing the life it
offers day after day. Today I feel the
panic going slowly but the craving for the kuey
teow thng has started…

Thursday, 21 November 2013

Last week we went to spend Armistice Day with our friends who recently bought an apartment in the Montmarte area. What has eased our transition in Paris is knowing that we have some friends around the corner, friends who had lived in Malaysia and who understand how its sometimes not so easy being new in a strange land.

We tend not to wander too far away from our quartier, thats why I haven't posted so many different photos of Paris. Montmarte is an area we are likely to go to more often, bringing guests, or now, visiting our friends!

Au Lapin Agile or The Nimble Bunny is a famous Montmarte cabaret that has an interesting story behind its name. It was originally known as Cabaret des Assassins because the story goes that a band of assassins broke into the cabaret and murdered the owner's son. In 1875, the painter André Gill, painted a sign that came to suggest its new name. The picture of a rabbit jumping out of a saucepan started the neighbourhood referring to their local night club as Le lapin a Gill, meaning Gill's rabbit. Over time, the name evolved into what it is today Au Lapin Agile. It was apparently a favourite hang out spot for struggling artists and writers of the early 20th century, like Picasso and Modigliani. Picasso's oil painting of 'At the Lapin Agile' definitely helped to make it known abroad. Steve Martin also wrote a play called 'Picasso at the Lapin Agile'; the plot centring on Picasso and Einstein meeting at this bar, and having a lengthy discussion about the value of genius and talent.

I can't imagine it all to be genius and talent though. No doubt this was the heart of artistic Paris, but there must have been quite a mix of people here, and some of very questionable character. Montmarte is more 'gentrified' these days but some parts of the neighbourhood are still a bit rough, and there are shops whose window displays are not what you may be used to!

Amongst the mix of bourgeoise, artists, struggling or up-and-coming artists, pimps and what nots, there was also a saint and a matyr in the history of Montmarte. We go back a bit earlier though, to about the 3rd century. Denis was a bishop of Paris. Pagan priets, panicking at his rate of conversions, had him executed by beheading. The legend goes that Denis picked his head up, continued to walk north for about ten kilometres, all the while continuing to preach his sermon. He is one of the patron saints of Paris and there are many versions of this statue in the city. Next time you are at the Notre Dame, see if you can spot him.

I was happy to stumble on more lively subjects after Saint Denis - a group of young men playing petangue, where players throw metal balls (hollow ones lah) as close as possible to a small wooden one.

The Moulin de la Galette dates back to the 17th century. It was known for much more than its milling. Another venue of distraction for Parisians then, it was also very popular amongst Renoir, Van Gogh and Picasso. These artists know how to have a good time, don't they? It was probably most immortalised by Renoir's painting Bal du moulin de la galette.

What a view…In the distance is Les Invalides (museum and monument all relating to the military history of France - that warrants a separate post) .

You can't keep the artists from Montmarte...

We haven't even explored half of Montmarte yet, there is so much more to see. We'll be back.

Thursday, 14 November 2013

I've been terribly uninspired lately. After the hustle and bustle of summer, the arrival of the cold weather was inevitable, and my body seems to want to go into automatic hibernation mode. I haven't gotten the full blown flu but the bug is certainly hovering around.

The girls were excited to go back to school, and with the school system 'reform', now have school on Wednesday mornings making it a 4 1/2 day week instead of their previous four. Its taking a while getting used to this rhythm because Wednesdays off school was a good mid-week break which allowed for a play date on Tuesday afternoons or a movie at home and the Wednesday itself dedicated to a bit of lay-in and other less scholarly activities.

Thank goodness we had some exciting visitors to sweeten the start of the school year.

Téa, as you can see, was just over the moon to see her godpa and be able add to her collection of spoons (she gets a silver spoon a year from godpa).

Peter took some great photos for his blog, and did a fun interview with our friends which he will soon post on his blog life is a song if you can't dance. Which kind of reminded me of my empty promises to take photos of our now-not-so-new apartment for you. My latest excuse? My camera has broken down. Well, my favourite 'its-all-in-the-camera' camera that is. I made some efforts anyway, with this other little camera. And now you can see, that actually, I am not so great with the camera after all.

So anyway, here is a picture-story of recent (ok, some not so recent) happenings, and what's in and around our home:

We've been up since four am in anticipation of the first day of school!

Wooden ceiling beams typical of old French apartments, like ours.

Our living room wall stirs up an on-going debate; do we keep the green wall green?

Our 16th century building features hand-quarried stone and very thick walls. A note to residents: no horse carriage in the courtyard please.

Wallpaper in the girls' room. A bit of nature, a bit of religion, a bit of music...

Our own personal chef.

What was waiting for me at the post office after the summer holidays. Thanks Ivy!

Two gifts we want to leave our children: roots and wings. Roots for them to know where they come from, and to keep them grounded. Wings to soar above everything, to go where we never could. To do this, sometimes we need to uproot.